Second poem for class

Sentinel

Blue sky but a chill wind picks up
and whips across the ground.
The grass is sharp, still green, but dry.
People in the stands pull hats and scarves tight
and think how the wind must feel
on the bare legs of the players.
A white cloud passes.

Behind the stands, a sandstone escarpment
watches the white cloud go,
green grass hair on top, its sandy face
turned up and away, to different threats
in the distant sky.